


Stole My Soul

by Neffectual



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Christianity, Heaven, Hell, M/M, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once you accept that there are demons, you have to think about the existence of a god.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stole My Soul

I hear him calling me.  
This is not unusual, with children. They do not understand that the helper their parents gave them was bargained for with their soul, can not understand why nanny no longer wants to play their games and tuck them in at night.  
They are given a simplistic version, of course. "Nanny's going to gobble you up." "Uncle Davey just wants to take you away from all this." but the children are rarely, if ever, told the truth about their caretakers, and never dare to ask.  
Only once has a child ever bargained his own soul for the pursuit of revenge and a lifetime a little longer than that he might have had. And what a child; petulant, bitter, head held high, and yet so frightened of letting the walls down, lest they never be builded up again.  
You can slip into a role here, that's why we never want to stay long. Any stay in Hell is an eternity, and any respite we get from it is cloyed with the knowledge that they call it 'God's green earth'. It makes us weary, and accepting of our roles. Hell places us in ranks, legions, and we bear it, because what else is there?  
But still I hear him calling me.

He has found someone to tell him my name, and when I find who it was, they will suffer eternally. As if we do not all suffer the torment of ten thousand hells in merely staying here. We were promised more than this.  
So he calls out to me, calls me by another name, one I am unused to hearing from his mouth.  
"Mephistopheles!"  
Curse the fool who let him know my name, the child is trouble, anyone can see that. Other souls are tired, weak, lost, by now, but still he stays as obstinate as ever. He told me to make it hurt. Sometimes I think he didn't believe that the pain would go on forever. That one act of kindness would have led me to suffer a short millennia in torture. At least by then, he should have given up this futile quest to make me hear him, to see him, to….  
I am no longer a servant to him, but a servant of Hell.  
He can scream either of my names for as long as he wishes, but if I go to him, it will be with my ears plugged and a crop in my hand. If I were not banned from touching him for a century, I would do it now, teach the child some manners. All the times I dreamt of taking him over my knee and giving him the thrashing he richly deserved… my fingers itch just to think of it.  
But I am thinking like a human, and I am not one of those herd animals.

He catches my eye, and, without meaning to, I am drawn nearer. I sneer at Belial, and he shifts, letting me closer. I am forbidden contact with my charge, true enough, but Belial is not enough to stop Mephistopheles. Belial never was an angel, born here, in this pit, spawn of Satan indeed. I am one of the Fallen, and he will not stand in my way.  
"Sebastian!"  
I chuckle at his desperation, those true-blue eyes flaring in surprise and anger when I give him a cursory look over. The right eye is blue again, without my mark, and I wonder if he, too, feels its absence more keenly than the blows which he receives. I rub my hand, having unconsciously slipped back into the form he gave me.  
How the child spots me across the pit, I have no idea. I am bound, having tasted him, to know where he is at all times, but he should have no clue which of the sprawling, squirming bodies I am.   
Yet he always manages to see me.  
"Sebastian!"  
He always made the very word a sin, a soft sibilance that would surely sound wrong from anything but a serpent's tongue. As if serpents were not bound up enough in the space between men and Satan.  
I remember what he was, and stare at this pale shade, again, letting him know exactly what I think. He bows his head, defeated at last, and I sweep by, slipping back from the form he gave me. Belial nods, and turns back to the whip.  
Sycophant.

There is a niggling itch at the back of my head, where the child stares. Perhaps he now realises that his soul was worth more, and that more time would have been a gift, not a curse. Perhaps he realises that he could have bargained to at least rule in Hell, if serving in Heaven seemed too arduous.  
He stares as Satan addresses us, all souls spared torture for a moment, although in truth, a gathering of demons, speaking in our guttural tongue, are enough to scare the bravest shade.  
Still he stares.  
It is off-putting, like the slide of a knife between the third and fourth rib, a sliver of an ache long lost to mortal bodies. I will have nothing to do with it, and I am damned if I will turn to acknowledge him.  
Damned either way, I turn, and stare coolly back.  
The child has the gall to flinch from that glare, as if he had not been doing much the same, and Satan notices.  
"MEPHISTOPHELES?"  
I turn my attention back, snarling at Satan. He is not one of my fears; no mortal night-terror will send Mephistopheles scurrying to his hole. He is aware of this; I will not falter. I know him of old.  
"MAY I CARRY ON?"  
I wave a hand languidly, but bow my head. It would not do to be seen to openly challenge the brute, no, that would only lead to in-fighting and squabbles. And if we fall to that, we need never have left in the first place.  
Satan continues, and still that stare remains, sliding around in my head like a dark feather, slipping in where mortal thoughts should not go.  
I notice he has stopped calling for me.

It's faint, but nevertheless, it is there. Of all the shades to work it out, I would not… have put it past him for a moment. Of course not, he is a petulant, self-abusing child, and would put anything forward on the table to win, even his own soul.  
He is whispering to me.  
I lock eyes with him, from over a mile away, and know, from the glare, the blood, the teeth buried into the lip, that it not only allows him to stare into my head, but allows him freedom from his torture, too. I send him scurrying back to his own head, and he howls as the lash comes down, tears falling.  
I look at him as a child.  
He raises his head, and is back again, and whispers, so soft, something almost beyond the reach of hearing. I do not respond, and the sound comes again, bolder, more fierce, a challenge.  
Before I know it, I am across the pit, standing before him, wings spread and snarling. Half of me is butler, half of me is demon, and all of me is his.  
Beelzebub stands before me and lunges, but I take it for the feint it is and ignore it. He will not challenge me, not even he, Satan's right hand. I am one of the unholy three, and I will take no child snapping at me like an eager puppy. I am worth more than that.  
There is a hand at my back, and my wings furl again, allowing the child to place his palm flat. He strokes, gently, and I watch the demons gather around. Satan steps forward.  
"That you would do this, Mephistopheles… You bring great shame upon yourself."  
"I bring nothing you did not bring first, Lucifer."  
The crowd hiss; that name is forbidden here. Here, he is Satan, Lord of Hell, not Lucifer, the Bringer of Light.  
"Come, now, Mephistopheles. Let me take the child, and you shall be richly punished for this."  
I snarl at him, teeth extended, and he draws back his palm. He did not expect me to attack him. But now, for this child, there is nothing I would not do.  
He strokes the patch between my wings again, and whispers.  
Emboldened, I lash out, taking two down instantly, and spread my wings, gathering him close as we spring aloft. He clings tightly, the unspoken promise of not letting go this time, ten be damned, ten be blessed, and I am steadied, fighting off those who have followed me.  
There are so few.  
We spiral upwards, Satan, Lucifer, friend, foe, master, the last one to face me. But we are slipping past his boundaries now, slipping through the edges of his domain, and he howls at me.  
"MEPHISTOPHELES!"  
The child clings, and brushes his cheek against mine. That whisper comes again, softer, brighter.  
"Azuriel. My Azuriel."  
"Yes, my Lord."

We fly higher, sliding through the edges of what is real and what is not. His spirit is re-building a body around him, shaping the edges of reality to fit his purpose; he solidifies in my arms and my body echoes his needs, flawless butler, but for the wings.  
"What now?" he asks, as if simply requesting the choice of menu for dinner, as if I have not just cut all my ties with the one place I belong, all for him.  
"It is but for you to decide, master," I say, slipping back into that familiar role, his breath warm on my cheek, "Up, or down?"  
He tosses his head at me, and in that moment, I do not doubt that he would rule Hell in an instant if we returned.  
I have been a fool.  
We were enclosed in Hell, safe from any possible heavenly influences. If I'd given it another century, perhaps we could have developed something… I was banned from being near him, certainly, but a century is not long next to millennia.  
We hover, world beneath, Hell beneath that, and I take a moment to swoop down, skimming the grass, simply to feel the human reality again.  
He clings to me, my Lord and Master, the one being I was created to serve. I will not let him down again, ever, for I would rather sentence myself back to Hell without him, and without the comfort he gives me. So help me, I will restore him to his rightful place.  
He trusts me.  
"Land, Sebastian." He demands, and, of course, I obey. As a demon, and a butler, I have done nothing else.

He seems a little steadier once we land, and quickly kicks down from my hold, straightening his clothing as if he's been caught doing something terribly undignified. I suppose he has, really: being rescued from Hell by a demon is something unbecoming to the Phantomhive household, clearly.  
"So, what now?"  
I almost laugh at the expression on his face, two thirds petulantly ordering, one third lost and helpless, but he cards his fingers through my wings and I remember how the angels used to groom each other. He tugs gently at tangled feathers, and I struggle not to envelop him within my wings and forget that there are consequences for actions.  
"We can not stay here."  
He sinks his fingers in deeply, causing me to hiss and look up. Familiar red hair and red coat saunter towards us, Grelle's grinning mouth ready to form all sorts of salacious offers and maniacal speeches, but she is silent as she approaches, and drops to one knee, staring up at us.  
"Yes?" the master asks, eventually, the tremble in his voice well-disguised.  
"You have been stupid, Sebastian." The shinigami hisses, a pleasant whisper in her voice, like she will enjoy seeing how my punishment plays out, "But nonetheless…"  
"Loyalty has its own rewards."  
Grelle starts at this, staring at the young master.  
There is a long pause again, one unbroken by anything but his breath, the two of us being used to thinking of respiration as an option, not a necessity.  
"Yeeees." Grelle says at last, drawing the syllables out into something serpentine, and I damn her again for reminding me of our predicament. If it were not for my intervention, we would still be safe – lost, in Hell, and at the mercy of a thousand demons, but still, safe from Him.  
The child has no idea how great and terrible His mercy can be, but I do, I have first-hand experience of how mercy, from below, can seem a lot like torture. Grelle stares at me, knowing that I understand what she is saying beneath her words, and that I understand – she is giving us a warning. We will not get a second.  
"You have decided to seek… above?" Grelle asks, tentatively, leaving unnamed the being we will seek.  
The young master nods, and I reciprocate the gesture, letting the shinigami know that we will not be returning to this place. I know not whether the master understands the sacrifice that he makes, or whether he chooses to ignore his fate, but I shall not be the one to tell him the consequences of his actions. It has never been my place to make him look before he leaps. I am merely there to break his fall.  
"Sebastian." Grelle watches me like a cat as she draws my attention, and I wonder, briefly, if anything could have come of her infatuation, of my disrespect, if our paths had crossed at a time when I was not bound to a master, "You will be… careful."  
It is not a question.

I press upwards, one strong wingbeat after another, and I remember how these wings caught the light of every sunspot which dazzled through Heaven, how my wings were those which the Host marvelled at, how we marvelled at ourselves, and at the world which was forming.  
After eternal love comes only eternal bitterness, and pain. He stole the love we had for each other, and for Him, and handed it to the humans – and we wanted it to ourselves. The Host were never supposed to be infallible, after all; everything comes down to a divine plan, Lucifer becoming Satan as only one of those unlucky enough to stand too close to the edge. Daring to be different was suddenly not to be celebrated, but to be damned. I have been damned for millennia, seen Adam and Eve crawl forth from the ground, seen wickedness and evil prevail… and I still fail to rejoice in its ruin.   
"You will keep me safe, Azuriel." The Master's voice is surprisingly calm, and I commend him for this. He has given me an order, and I will obey it as best I can, when in the sight of Him.

We land again, solid ground an illusion, but one which still holds. He stares silently at the ruin the angels have made of Heaven, pushing out those they despise, the clouds torn and rent where battles have broken through. He does not approve, and yet His mouth quirks into a thin little smile.  
"Open the doors for me, Azuriel."  
"I can not, young master. The damned are forbidden – "  
His head whips around so quickly that the cloud parts slightly.  
"I don't believe that was a request, demon."  
I swallow back the words I would say, were He still a child, were I still his butler, and instead go to the doors, placing a hand flat against the metal. They are incongruous, these shining gates rising out of the cloud, and behind them, nothing, until they are opened. Surprisingly, the metal does not burn my hands, and I am not frozen in place. It simply shifts, slides open, and then they vanish. We are left, staring into Heaven. To us, it appears now as a dark corridor, leading to two more doors, larger and more imposing. I glance at Him to see if He understands what this means, but He is already walking towards the doors, head held high, ready for His audience with His maker. The doors pull themselves open before He can reach them, slipping back into darkness to reveal a throne, high on a dais, and empty. Always the brat, He stalks inside, climbing the dais with ease, and taking His place on the throne. As He settles into it, draping His legs over one arm, He gestures to me.  
"Come, Azuriel, and sit at my hand, as of old."  
What else there for me to say?  
"Yes, my Lord."


	2. Meet My Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the turn of Alois to take his place in Christian mythology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based heavily on Paradise Lost. To clear up confusion: the 'Adversary' refers to Satan, but everytime 'He' or 'Him' is capitalised in the middle of a sentece, it refers to God. I know it's awkward. It just works better in relation to both the Bible and Paradise Lost.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. So it is true, as the master returns from taking his place, that there should be one who sits below, also. In the beginning, before Man began taking the names away from the animals, there were three. Satan, Sin, and Death. Death takes the form of a man in black, eyes flashing fire, a gentleman of ill repute, and much more besides. Sin is his companion, a woman, dark-skinned, like those of easy virtue in knocking shops across the continent, and she gives nothing away until the end. As for Satan, they say his form is ever shifting, a corrupt, foul being with little to commend him, other than his fanatical desire for revenge. He who was so wronged, so many years ago, will once more return to the fore.

He isn't shrouded in darkness but wears it like a cape, easily discarded, as he bleeds through. A little blood flow shouldn't harm him, but it does hurt, and remind him exactly what it is he's fighting for. The one above is unable to be harmed beyond the harm he chooses to accept, he is a being of power, and grace, and love. Satan is nothing but agony and shrieking into the night, alone in darkness, and without pity. He has been told his face makes it so, that He gave him the face of the Adversary, rather than the face of an angel. He was marked for greatness before he was even sentient – if angels ever truly are.

He walks out on to the playing field once more, the curvature of the earth beneath him for once, the chessmen set out, cards wild, and all the aces up his sleeve. He brings nothing but deception to the game, nothing but lies and trickery. It is, after all, the way he was made to be. Even as an angel, he made them uncomfortable, visiting only when there was to be a death; given the job of removing His creatures from the planet, cleaning it up for the future generations. He wept bitterly, then, at the death of so many bright, beautiful things. Now, he feels nothing but cheer when he watches their vacant eyes stare up, desecrating corpses, pillaging, raping, burning. He takes his others with him, and they stand, the Unholy Three, their own shadows identical, yet matching none of them. The flames call to them, their stolen bodies melting into the heat, and basking in it. Somehow, it always feels warmer up here.

She is, as they say, as dark as Sin, as rich as Sin, as beautiful and tempting as that which she embodies. Silence is expected in a woman, and so she bears her cross, letting her body talk as she stalks the land, far more fearsome than the Horseman who will follow. Where he treads, people merely die. Where she lays her delicate feet, men turn into beasts, women into whores, and whilst they enjoy themselves, they offer their souls to the Adversary. You can find her in the cathouses, in the baths, in the convents, in the schools, in the churches and in the palaces; no door is barred to her, there is nowhere she can not tread. A beautiful woman is welcome everywhere, they say, and where she is not, she can always find a way in. She is the way the priest stares at the altar boy, the way the prince lusts for the maidservant; she is in every vice and every perceived virtue, and she does it all for the pleasure of her master.

He, on the other hand, is dark as night, but his powers seem limited. It seems the Adversary grew tired of his maker's penchant for murder, and gave the job, instead, to the man who stands beside him, always, the man in black, taller than trees, lighter on his feet than any dancer, kept from the windows and doors by the doctor, the midwife, the herbalist, and the witch. Where he lies down with her, they breed the three Horsemen, the identical three; War, for where his bloodlust wins through, Pestilence, for her soft curves and easy body, and Famine, where they turn their appetites to livestock, much like their human counterparts. The Adversary has offered them the chance to prevail, to retreat from His embrace and into that of the deeps. First he bred Sin, and then her dog-like offspring, the nefarious Death. And whilst He may think that his Heavenly Host keep close watch, there is only so close that most angels are prepared to get to demons. Of course, there is always at least one exception.

Death watches the field with interest, standing to face his better half, and at a gesture from their masters, they both leap into the fray. Whilst the Adversary is better at getting his way, He is better at getting his hands dirty, the one most likely to play fair, but play to win. Loss here is a loss on Earth, too, a loss of control, power, and influence. For the moment, they enjoy something which is roughly equal, but both are too greedy, to set in their ways, to accept that. Though He will claim that his revenge is finished, now Satan is cast down to the lake of fire, the Adversary knows better. Nothing is ever complete until the other knows he has lost, and he will not admit that he has been losing ever since those pearl gates were shut to him.

He watches the two servants fight, evenly matched, for the moment, but remembers he has something that his rival does not: a player in reserve. Sin steps forwards, sure of herself, a pleasure, a temptation, and yet His servant does not so much as falter. Perhaps it is not the sort of sweetmeat he craves, or perhaps He has burned all lust and want out of him with that flaming sword. It may be unnatural, but to Him, nothing is unnatural. There is no chance that they will be beaten, he knows, not when this is the war which will split Heaven in two, and hand at least half over to the Adversary. He can not wait for his slice of power, his little piece of Heaven. He isn't even sure he remembers how it feels anymore.

In the end, the servants are matched, and so the masters take it upon themselves to play the game, tired of simply moving pieces. The Adversary is wary, afraid of being hurt once more, and He never tires, never aches or sweats, merely plunges on, headlong, into battle. They fight not only for their revenge; their thoughts, their feelings, anger, fear, betrayal, but also for the fate of the entire world. There is little the Adversary feels for the humans, but that they would bring him more power, whereas He loves them, made one for his own, and yet betrayed even him.   
"You said I would never be able to beat you!" The Adversary cat-calls, dodging a strike narrowly.  
"And you haven't yet, Satan." Is the reply from Him. He does not need to raise his voice, or chase the other around the board. He merely waits for the ebb and flow of power to match his ideals, then thrusts it all at the other on the board. He goes sprawling like a chess piece, taken, usurped. But at least if your king is taken by a king, you have done well. When your king is vanquished by a pawn, there is no recourse.

The Adversary staggers back, bleeding, into the arms of his daughter and incestuous son, and he watches as He is lifted up in the arms of the angel, whilst his family's gaze berates him. He did not fail, not today, but nor did he win any ground for Hell over that of Heaven. In that, he is a failure, and he understand their disappointment, although he still will not tolerate it. With the last of his strength, he leans in to his daughter and puts her eye out with a thumb. Death, he does not touch. He is, after all, his defender, his creation. He answers only to him, never to Him or the powers of Heaven.

He wakes slowly, eyes flickering open to red brocade, a loveseat, perhaps, stained darker with blood and other fluids too unmentionable to be named. It is a struggle to sit, meeting Sin's remaining eye with a toss of the head, no apology to be found. Death stands nearby, disgust clearly written on his face. He does not want something so weak for a master, a father, the head of his line. Weakness should be purged, and of course, he is always the one to do so. However, he still obeys orders.  
"You… you will get me back into Heaven. I order you. You will claim for me the seat of Ciel Phantomhive!"  
"Yes, your Highness."


	3. Find My Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grelle and William take their turn stepping into the shrouds of religion.

"Do you remember?" The voice glides out of the dark on velvet wings, bat-like and near-silent.  
"I remember lots of things."  
"Do you remember when we were what we should be?"  
A pause, silence like a butterfly pinned to corkboard, struggling.  
"No. I don't remember that."  
"Sometimes I don't think it ever happened at all."

They used to sleep upside down, in the old days, before they slept with their arms folded across their chests in narrow boxes, before they became walking caricatures of themselves, wilfully disobeying historical laws and the disruption of the future. Now, they sleep in beds, like people do, and sometimes pull the sheets up over their heads, in fear. Gone are the days when they were what you would find under the bed, when they were the monster in the wardrobe; now they tremble with fear when daybreak comes, and wonder what they ever did to deserve this punishment. Once upon a time, when fairy tales still happened, they adored what they did, took pleasure in it, because no one had ever let them learn right from wrong. But once men knew, they knew, and guilt became their new watchword.

The eldest wraps it up in ledgers, one clean sweep for all of those who pass through the gates, a neat line under every column and the margins always just so. It's stereotypical, although in years gone by, it was done with a feather. The dead still line up, but now they are met with figures, formulae, and a neat, sharp nib. The temptation to move onto a spreadsheet is always lessened by the way a pen feels in between his fingers, its weight a comforting reminder of what they have lost.

The younger, with no such proclivities, wraps herself in colours to remind herself of when they were both young, when frivolity wasn't the only defence they had against a world which, faster and faster, is forgetting them. She prides herself in her appearance and her manner, extroverted and warped in so very many ways. She fits neither side of the chessboard, standing out like a sore thumb amongst all that black and white, the sides advancing like an army, all of them human, all of them expendable. None of them fallible. Whoever wins this battle will kill those who survive, and they are on neither side. When they fall, though, so too does the natural order of things, chaos taking over, and it is all a downward fall from there.

The two sides are set, though, and there will be a battle.  
"No one ever wins." The younger points out, teeth sharp and ready at the thought of a battle.  
"But they are young and impetuous."  
"They have been so for aeons."  
The elder tosses his head, in possession of the facts, and turns back to the board, watching the pawns scatter.  
"What are the stakes?" the younger asks, perhaps letting a little worry drip into her words.  
"Higher than any of the players can imagine."  
"Any? In the old days they numbered only two."  
"The two have allies now," the elder explains, smiling a thin, mirthless smile, "And neither will stop until the other side is dead."  
"They do our job for us – but at the end of this battle, there will be no souls."  
"No. We do not carry the souls of the damned."  
"In the old days, we used to be them."  
Neither feels the need to mention that the old days are gone.

They jolt awake one night, winding arms around each other and staring into the grimy darkness, waiting for a knock at the door which ne'er comes, the whinny of a pale horse, the click of bone across the floor. Instead, they hear neat, smart footsteps fading into the distance, another coming and going without paying his respects.  
"Do you remember when we were gods?" the eldest whispers.  
"You always have been." The younger says quietly, and pulls the other closer, willing warmth to pass between them.  
"What if… what if we were never worshipped?"  
"Don't you remember? The gold in Israel, the oxen in Egypt, the virgins in England." The younger leer his voice wrap around their numerous offerings, "We had perfumes, expensive spices, hearts, blood. The Aztecs built pyramids for us."  
"I remember. But did it really happen?"  
There's an uncomfortable pause.  
"I… I don't know."

The eldest watches his protégé walk back from a kill. Usually, she saunters, grinning, whistling, adoring every moment of being what she is, a killing machine, a means to an end. Today, she drags her weapon behind her, slumped and dull, not the vibrant splash of colour she should be.  
"Are you… alright?" The tone is stilted, concern not coming naturally to either of them.  
"You're right. They're not like they were before. They're young, they take ruthless allies, they… they don't care who dies. They don't even care about themselves anymore. The whole of creation hangs in the balance, and they're off playing at tea parties!"  
Austere though he seems, the elder doesn't mention it when arms are flung about him and hot, wet tears soak through his jacket.

"I thought you revelled in it."  
"Sometimes every face we wear is just another mask."  
"And when the last mask is taken off?" the elder is interested now, genuine curiosity colouring his tone, leaning in to breathe hotly. Something else they never used to need.  
"Then under that is something more terrible than even we can imagine. Something plain and dull and tiny, and yet older than time itself."  
"Do you remember?"  
"I remember when the galaxies formed, when time stood still, when the notes echoed across the universe after it was formed, how hot metal sounds as it cool, how the lizards built their cities…"  
"Do you remember when we became so frivolous?"  
A pause, silence nesting for the night, hidden under protective wings.  
"No. I don't remember that."  
William and Grelle lie, side by side, hands barely touching. For they, who should need no human comforts, it is enough.


End file.
